


Orphan

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Gen, Set between 4:04 and 4:05
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-24
Updated: 2011-10-24
Packaged: 2017-10-24 22:16:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/268464
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of interviews between Lincoln Lee and Peter Bishop, set between episodes 4:04 and 4:05</p>
            </blockquote>





	Orphan

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS: SPECULATION AHOY! ICEBERG BEWARE!
> 
> (Inspired by the trailers from last week and – in the grand tradition of trailers - bound to be wrong, wrong, wrong). Seriously, this story has a heavy focus on Lincoln and Peter, and as such, it’s not even a glimmer in any future canon.  
> NOTES: Um, paranoia is the name of the game. Consider this story an AU.

_“In light of the injuries Dr. Bishop inflicted upon his person, it is my opinion that all involvement with the FBI should cease immediately. Agent Dunham’s personal backing of Dr. Bishop, while noted, is not the deciding factor here. Dr. Bishop’s mental health, his care, should be provided by the medical profession at large, and his involvement with the FBI is hereby subject to review by committee.” _– Dr. Sumner  
___________________________

 

INTERVIEW 1:  
TAKE 1:

He doesn’t like Massive Dynamic. Not the name, their polished floors, pristine walls, or the faint trace of electronics and disinfectant that scours the air. The screen in the foyer said there were seventy-three labs available, Lincoln’s willing to bet there are half a dozen more unlisted. He sits on the bench provided, both feet pressed evenly against the ground, tie straight, eyes fixed on the opposite wall. His watch informs him it’s been forty minutes since he arrived. Lincoln’s not certain if this is a test or a multi-million dollar company throwing its collective weight against the federal government.

“Agent Lee.” Nina Sharp turns the corner, her arrival heralded by the sharp click of her high-heels against the floor. She stands at five foot four, diminutive in stature, with an aura of palpable power. There’s nothing about her that can be quantified as small.

“Ms Sharp,” he answers and stands upright.

“I do apologise. I hope my secretary did not leave you waiting long.”

“Not at all.” Lincoln’s willing to play the polite game. He knows the chessboard of politics better than he’d care to admit. “I’m here to conduct an interview with the subject.”

Her smile stretches, head bobbed to one side. She has an interesting form of speech, Lincoln notes, as if each word is judged for merit before leaving her mouth. “Indeed? I’m surprised the bureau decided to follow this up, Agent Lee. I was given to understand it fell within our purview more than yours.”

“We have interested parties,” he allows.

“Yes, interested parties who remain notably absent. Forgive me if I say it doesn’t speak much for their interest.”

“Well, I’m here,” he states.

Massive Dynamic was allowed forty-eight hours to run a battery of uninterrupted tests, more invasive than the preliminary check-up Boston General provided. Lincoln stares at her impassively until Nina turns away.

Lincoln falls into step with her, matching her stride for stride as they walk down the hallway. “And how is Walter?” Nina asks tartly.

Reaping the rewards of proving himself not insane, or at least, trying to. Olivia remains with him as does Colonel Broyles, keeping him calm as St. Claire’s psychiatric review oversee his latest bout of interviews. Dr. Sumner couldn’t have chosen a worse time to decide the man was clinically insane and though they know now - know without a doubt Walter was seeing _something _\- it’s a little hard to explain to St. Claire’s while maintaining absolute confidentiality, or without the solid presence of the FBI at his shoulder.__

Olivia’s preoccupied with protecting Walter and Lincoln, who knows he’s tolerated by Dr. Bishop rather than trusted, volunteered for this duty instead.

“I understood the two of you used to be friends,” Lincoln answers her calmly. “It can’t be too difficult to pick up the phone and find out for yourself.” It’s a mistake; Lincoln knows it as soon as he says it.

Nina falters, the crack of her high-heels like the retort of a gunshot. She folds her gloved hands one over the other and studies him brightly, her smile practiced. “Friendships tarnish, Mr. Lee.” She motions him toward the elevator. Inside the confined space the silence between them turns awkward. Nina stares straight ahead, Lincoln watches the lights flip over as they climb steadily upward.

“Did your initial tests reveal anything?”

“Type A positive blood. No traces of mercury, an unusually high exposure to Kappa radiation although within tolerable levels. I’ve shared all relevant information, not to mention my equipment. Why don’t you return the favour?”

It’s not Lincoln’s story to tell. He’s not even sure if he could explain it coherently if he tried. “Have you spoken at all?” he asks instead.

“Attempted to,” Nina shrugs elaborately. “It’s refusing to speak again until Olivia Dunham arrives. Or Walter Bishop.” She looks at him keenly. “You didn’t get so much as a mention, I’m afraid.”

Lincoln takes a minute then decides to ignore her use of ‘it’ when describing the subject. “He may have to wait on that score,” Lincoln says mildly.

The elevator lets them off on the twenty-ninth level. The corridor is narrow, a trick of design, tampering to sharp points or sturdy triangles. The fluorescent light presses heat from above, a low buzz that reminds Lincoln of high school, of flies trapped between the light and plastic. Each door’s coded with a key-pass. The last one requires Nina’s own palm print. “You’re not leaving much to chance,” he observes.

“Our world has been breached on any number of occasions. Key members of congressional committees have been replaced by shape-shifters.” There’s a light in Nina’s eye, the type of fervour Lincoln ascribes to religious nuts. She enjoys the confrontation, pitting her best against others. “You will not find Massive Dynamic remiss in its security.” Nina motions toward the door. “And whatever - _whomever _that is - I assure you, it doesn’t belong here.”__

Lincoln pushes his glasses up, places his hand against the door and steps inside.

The room is small, outfitted with a triangular window and a single bed. The man stretched on its length is too tall for its size, his bare feet hanging off the edge. On the bottom half he’s dressed in surgical scrubs, a white t-shirt completes the look. He’s sprawled in the Peter Pan pose, one arm tucked under his head, left leg straight, staring up at the ceiling. The stranger’s right leg is bent at an angle until his foot rests against his left knee.

“You have half an hour.” Nina says briskly.

A click signals an automatic bolt locking into place as Nina steps away, sealing them inside.

There’s a part of Lincoln that wants to beat on the door and demand to have words. The woman knows _exactly _when to place her cards on the table. Lincoln can’t afford to show any reaction in front of the intruder. Nina’s attempt to dictate the terms of their meeting floods him with anger, but showing the stranger anything _other _than a unified front could be detrimental at this point.____

“Lincoln Lee,” the man says. He pushes upright slowly, knees drawn loosely to his chest, back against the wall. There are half a dozen needle marks on his forearm, bruising on both wrists. “I’m guessing you’re not here to take me home.”

And according to Nina, that’s eleven more words than spoken to her.

Lincoln’s staring at the ligature marks, the low buzz of anger that’s been with him since the extended wait in the foyer flaring hot. It’s not his concern, Lincoln reminds himself. The intruders’ question is a good a lead in as any other. “Where is home, exactly?”

“It’s not on the twenty-ninth level of Massive Dynamic, that’s for sure.” The intruder tilts his head, his voice a low drawl. “You know, technically, holding me here isn’t legal.”

“Technically, you’re not a citizen of the United States,” Lincoln counters smoothly. The intruder raises his chin, his smile this side of bitter.

“Hello, Guantanamo Bay.”

There’s no room for Lincoln to sit, and he has no intention of sharing the man’s pitiful bed. He feels like a bad impression of a cop in a B-movie, looming over his suspect and utterly failing to intimidate. It’s never been his style, like Olivia; letting the crowd underestimate him has always worked in Lincoln’s favour. “How did you know my name?” Lincoln queries.

He moves away from the door in an attempt to appear less as a sentinel and more of a guest. If he were in a suspect’s home, Lincoln would be staring at their belongings, ghosting through their possessions, weighing their reaction from the corner of his eye. It’s a little hard to do in a room this size. According to Olivia’s report, the intruder claimed to know everyone in Fringe Division. Lincoln’s not certain how he rates among the stranger’s personal hierarchy.

“Where’s Olivia Dunham?” The man counters just as easily.

Lincoln’s already lost one partner. He feels his spine stiffen, a nameless fear brushing close to the surface. The intruder went after her, Lincoln reminds himself. Whatever he is he _targeted _her, and Lincoln wasn’t there to back Olivia up. He’s not inclined to let them meet again until he has his own set of answers. “She wasn’t interested in coming,” he lies. “Other things on her mind.”__

It’s the first real expression Lincoln sees on the intruder’s face. It’s as if he took a direct hit to the solar plexus - rendered breathless, his complexion too pale in his hospital scrubs. He swallows once, gaze fixed on the outer wall. Lincoln watches him quietly for a long moment until the man ducks his head, his smile rueful. “You’re good.”

“You think I’m lying?” Lincoln challenges. Despite himself, Lee’s startled. He won a small fortune from Robert in their weekly poker-games - he doesn’t bluff often but on the odd occasion he does, Lincoln’s never revealed his hand.

“I know you are. If something comes after Olivia Dunham you can be damned sure she’ll run toward it, not hide behind you.” He takes a breath and leans against the wall again. “How long have you been partners for?”

And hell no, that’s not the way the game works.

“Let’s get things clear. You need to tell me what you know and you need to tell me _now _. If you don’t, if I walk out of this room empty-handed, they can lock this door behind me and it will be as if you never existed.”__

“They’ve taken enough blood samples to know I’m not a shape-shifter.”

“And most people don’t show up as glowy ball of electro plasma. Besides which, we’ve had human operatives sent over here before.”

“Fauxlivia?” the stranger says tensely, leaning forward. “So the bridge is still open?”

Whatever advantage Lincoln had just slipped through his fingers. He knows his mouth is open. He knows he paused too long, blinking owlishly at the intruder.

“Olivia Dunham’s badge number is 7-18-6-22-7-9. She lives on 1124 Strathmore Blvd and if you don’t get me out of this goddamn room and into Fringe headquarters….”

“You’ll what? Give me the finger from the twenty-ninth level?”

The man chokes, his tirade interrupted. He squints at Lee with an irrepressible half smile. Lincoln rocks on his heels, silently cursing the diameters of the room, the spark of interest that has him circling closer. He can name by memory the number of people who have clearance to know about the alternate reality.

The man scratches the back of his skull and says unexpectedly. “Sorry.”

Lincoln bites his lip, going over the viable scenarios before he decides. “You’re from the other side.”

He can’t categorize the expression on the other man’s face. The intruder looks away from Lincoln and doesn’t answer, his jaw working silently. There’s frustration, clear and visible, something beneath that as well, more akin to grief.

“I need to see Olivia Dunham,” he repeats, voice low.

The St. Claire review board will take the better part of a week. It will keep Olivia and Broyles tangled both, and in this light, the bruises on the intruder’s wrists are stark. This close, Lincoln can see the matching set on his ankles, partially hidden by the hospital scrubs. “Olivia can’t make it yet. I’ll be the one conducting the initial interviews, so you need to give me something.” Lincoln’s time is running out. He’s staring at the cluster of needle marks on the man’s arm; he’s thinking half an hour is no time at all in a twenty-four hour day. “Or at least, give me an excuse to come back.”

“Lincoln, who owns Massive Dynamic?”

It’s startling to hear his name spoken, falling off the man’s tongue as if the intruder has the right to it, as if they’re known quantity to one another. There’s something painfully hesitant in the way he asks. You need to give me something, Lincoln said, and maybe it starts with quid pro quo. “Nina Sharp,” he answers, perplexed. “Why?”

“Senator Van Horn. Is he still alive?”

“Shouldn’t he be?”

The intruder smiles unpleasantly. “Maybe you ought to give him his own set of blood tests.”

It wasn’t the answer Lincoln was hoping for. It doesn’t scratch the surface of the list of questions he has stacked in his head. The lock on the door disengages. Distracted, Lincoln turns his head toward it.

“Have they asked about me?”

“Who?” Lincoln says absently, and misses the intruder’s expression as he’s ushered from the room. It’s not Nina Sharp who greets Lincoln in the corridor but a seven-foot mountain of pure muscle.

The security guard peers down at Lee and informs him politely. “Ms. Sharp had urgent business elsewhere.”

***

Lincoln returns to Harvard at 5:30pm after making a quick stop at headquarters.

The lights are dimmed, the turntable silent. The lab’s curiously bereft without Walter’s presence. He stands in the centre of the room, facing the office where Dr. Bishop tried to lobotomise himself. Lincoln places the file on the bench and rubs the bridge of his nose.

“You need to strip Walter’s bed.”

It speaks to Lincoln’s sensibilities that he doesn’t claw at the air in fright. Astrid pokes her head from behind a counter and smiles at him.

“I do?”

She holds up a pen and paper. “Unless you prefer to organise the shopping for next week?”

If given the option Lincoln _would _prefer the shopping over Walter’s dirty laundry but Astrid narrows her eyes dangerously. Lincoln’s been at Harvard long enough to know Walter’s care is divided among the agents assigned to him. Any shirking of responsibility is not tolerated. He glances at the office again and, in his mind’s eye, pictures the last tableau the room saw - Olivia squatting on the ground as she held a patch to Walter’s bleeding eye.__

“Are you certain you need to stock up on food?”

“He _is _coming back,” Astrid says firmly.__

He strips the sheets one at a time, bundles the pillowcases into a carry sack and then throws the bag over his shoulder like a poor edition of Santa Claus. “What do you know about Massive Dynamic?” he calls out. “Beside the PR spiel.”

Astrid looks up from her inventory of stock. “They’re the leading pioneers in science and technology, unofficially, they’re the government’s clean-up crew for all things inexplicable.”

Lincoln’s been playing catch-up with Olivia’s case files for the better part of a month. He knows there’s an entire litany of names, persons, who have vanished inside Massive Dynamics triangular walls. “Inexplicable things like Joseph Meegar?”

Astrid straightens, her posture uneasy. “These people aren’t exactly safe for society, Lincoln. Sometimes, Massive Dynamic is the best chance they have.”

“If Broyles returns, can you let him know I need to speak with him?”

“Sure.”

Lincoln readjusts the sack of laundry over his shoulder, grabs the printed files on Senator Van Horn from his desk, and heads toward the door. He spends forty-five minutes listening to Walter’s bed-sheets tumble dry before his cell rings. “They’re back.”

***

“But I was right!” Walter says stubbornly. He’s wearing earmuffs, one eye’s still swollen, the skin angry red. Olivia peels the tweed jacket from his frame and hangs it up as Walter takes two stumbling steps. He’s agitated, Lincoln notes, but that’s par for the course when it comes to Dr. Bishop. “I was right all along! Ergo, I’m not insane!”

“And saying so at volume is not going to convince the committee anymore than the first dozen times you said it,” Olivia says calmly.

She has one guiding hand on Walter’s shoulder. Olivia catches sight of Lincoln and nods in greeting. Walter swings around, all of his frenetic energy directed at Broyles. “I don’t see why you don’t tell them.”

“Tell them?” Broyles repeats.

“Yes! You should tell them Olivia and I were haunted by an apparition! That his voice was inside my head, and at night, he’d slip between Olivia’s sheets. That he was out of sync with our reality and we caught that floating ball of electro plasma and zapped it until it turned real!”

To his credit Lincoln’s never seen a response quite as dry as Broyles. “I’d really rather not.”

“But I was right,” Walter repeats plaintively, conveniently forgetting he was trying to kill the floating ball of electro plasma in question.

“How’d it go?” Lincoln asks as an aside.

“Perilously not well.” Broyles sets his shoulders and takes two intimidating steps forward, his body all swagger, eyes drilling into Lee. Lincoln’s decided the man’s not even aware he does it. “Agent Farnsworth said you needed to speak with me?”

“Yes, sir.”

***

“You’re asking me to cast doubt on not only a high-ranking official of the inter-relation committee, but a close personal friend,” Broyles rumbles. “And to do so on the word of what was, in the words of Dr. Bishop, a ball of electro plasma? Forgive me if I remain not so convinced.” Lincoln opens his mouth then shuts it again when Broyles continues. “Furthermore, we were given their word all operatives on our soil were named and withdrawn upon the signing of the treaty. We make an accusation like this, Agent Lee, then you’re making an accusation against the other side.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“What makes you certain the information can be trusted?’

“I’m not. But we won’t know for sure unless we look into it.”

“Sounds to me like a head-game. There are certain individuals who toy with investigations, who mislead. They try to entice further engagements…”

Exasperated, Lincoln says, “He’s not a serial killer.” And yeah, enticing them to come back is exactly what the intruder’s doing.

Broyles stares at him, his eyes crystalline hard. “And I don’t think he can be trusted.” It’s a stalemate. Lee swallows, trying to keep his hands loose as Broyles swings toward Olivia. “What do you think?”

Olivia folds her arms, her eyes wavering toward Walter. “I think I should be the one interviewing him.”

They need Walter focused, to convince the review board at St. Claire’s he’s compos mentis. They don’t need his attention scattershot, and the best person to keep Walter focused is Olivia. “You were the agent assigned to Dr. Bishop,” Broyles retorts. “Until Dr. Sumner’s injunction is ended, you have other duties. And you,” he swings toward Lincoln. “Stay away from Senator Van Horn.”

“Yes, sir,” Lincoln says blankly.

He peels away, ignoring Olivia’s frustrated look as Broyles holds her back to confer with. Lincoln doesn’t have anything concrete. He can’t point to the evidence and say something is remiss because there _is _no evidence. He has his gut and the memory of Nina’s cordial smile, enticing as a white pointer in the break-waves.__

“Astrid!” He catches up to her, taking the stairs in a single stride. “You about to do the shopping?”

“Yes,” she says. Astrid has her car keys in one hand, the shopping list in the other, but more importantly her weapon is clearly displayed on her hip. She looks him up and down suspiciously. “Why?”

Lincoln smiles winningly. “Mind if we take a side-trip?”

 

INTERVIEW 2:  
TAKE 2:

________________________________________

 _“Van Horn’s placement in the committee was a matter of checks and balances, Agent Broyles. He wasn’t there to do harm to your world. He was there to inform me if you ever backed out of the treaty.” _\- Walternate.__

__________________

 

The second time Lincoln pushes into the room on the twenty-ninth level, Broyles is with him. Lee’s been awake for thirty-one hours, jittery with caffeine and adrenaline. During that time, he apprehended a shape-shifter, exposed Broyles’ friend, was simultaneously congratulated for showing initiative then bitch-slapped and threatened with transferral if he ever crossed Broyles’ orders again. Phillip is nothing but a tower of rage, vibrating with grief, knowing Van Horn was replaced years ago. The intruder looks up as soon as they enter. He’s sitting cross-legged on the bed, Indian-style.

“Let me guess, Massive Dynamic gave you half an hour to interview me.” Lincoln glances from the intruder to Broyles as the stranger continues pointedly. “I’m curious, since when do Massive Dynamic control your interview length?”

“They don’t,” Broyles answers darkly.

The man slants an eyebrow tellingly.

The bruises haven’t faded. His body language is relaxed, deliberately open, bright-eyed as he watches. He doesn’t follow up on his opening gambit but waits patiently, whatever else, the man has experience with being on the opposite end of an interrogation. There’s nothing about him that reads as flustered. Lincoln stirs, feeling for the ripples beneath the surface. Olivia would be the easy talking point but he’s reluctant to drag his partner into this, even by name. “Reiden Lake is a little chilly to go skinny-dipping in October. Do you mind telling me what you were doing there?”

“Fishing.” Peter slouches against the wall, hands folded in front of himself, there’s a fission that runs through his body as if suddenly chilled. He stares at Broyles’ stony expression before he guesses. “You found the shape-shifter.”

“How did you know about Senator Van Horn?” Broyles counters directly.

The man smiles without humour and says by route. “I want to speak with Walter.”

From the corner of his eye, Lincoln sees Broyles’ fists clench. The déjà vu of the moment is starting to grate on Lee’s nerves as well, but Broyles’ lost a friend today (or possibly a year ago) and the intruder is skating on thin ice. He steps in front of Broyles before he can say or do anything to compromise himself. “You know, playing it coy isn’t doing you any favours, _Peter _.”__

“And spilling my guts while locked in a white room at Massive Dynamic is a good way to vanish, _Lee _.” He tilts forward, each word pointedly harsh. “This place locks people away for the government if they’re deemed a threat to society. Forgive me if I want to tell my story in a roomful of light, without scientists, with as many people from the Fringe unit as possible to hear it.” With Olivia and Walter present he doesn’t need to say.__

It tallies with Lincoln’s previous suspicions, about the tests Massive Dynamic are obviously still running. Lincoln steps away from Broyles’ side. He circles the small room carefully, going over it by inches, running the paranoia of the man’s words through his vision. Broyles’ leaps on the first part of the sentence instead. “You’re saying Massive Dynamic will deem you a threat if they know the truth?”

“I’m saying I want to talk to my father.”

“Snap,” Lincoln says, and motions to the bug, infinitely small, in the corner of the window. He turns sharply, in time to see the rising tension in Peter’s shoulders recede.

The man nods at him once. Lincoln frowns.

There’s silence for a minute. Lincoln watches Broyles weigh the pros and cons, the anger in his stance momentarily abated. It all rests on whether he’s willing to pander to the man’s requests in exchange for answers.

“I can’t promise Olivia or Walter Bishop, but Fringe has a cell and interrogation unit smaller than this,” Broyles warns flatly. “Will that do for starters?”

It’s a tell. Peter rubs one hand down his forearm, over the needle-marks, across the indigo bruises banding his wrists. “On the condition we leave now.”

“I need to talk to Nina Sharp.” Broyles raps on the door once and cuts his gaze toward Lincoln. “Stay with him,” he says shortly.

Lincoln folds his arms and stares at the bug. He waits until the door seals behind Broyles before he asks. “You’re scared we’ll show up tomorrow and you won’t be in this room?” Lincoln means it as a dig, preying on the male ego. He’s expecting Peter to baulk, to claim no fear.

“Yes,” he says instead.

The admission takes the sails out of Lincoln’s train of thought; it makes him look at Peter more carefully. He’s freaked out, Lincoln realises. It’s only visible now he has what he wants, or at least, the promise of it.

“I’ve been told, with great authority, I don’t exist.” He picks at the hem of his scrubs and squints at Lincoln ruefully. “They don’t even need to hide a paperwork-trail with me…all the warrants in the world won’t help if you come in tomorrow and they’ve shifted me to a nameless lab halfway across the country.”

He believes what he’s saying. But then most insane people do.

Lincoln picks up the thread of the question Broyles’ posed earlier, his voice soothingly quiet. “Why would they deem you a threat?” He’s thinking about the type of person who vanishes inside Massive Dynamic. Joseph Meegar, rabid growth soldiers, pyro kinetics, people who can sway the population with their emotions. He’s thinking about Astrid’s line of defense, _these people aren’t safe for society _.__

“Six point seven billion people share the same version of reality. The same _history _.” Peter tilts his head, his eyes murky blue, shot through with green, the reflected waters of a lake before a stone breaks the surface. “What would you do if one person could change it on a whim?”__

I’d shoot you in the head, Lincoln thinks, disturbed, and looks away.

Peter’s expression turns sardonic. “That’s what I thought.”

 

_______________

 

After Peter’s escorted out of Massive Dynamic by FBI agents, Lincoln’s ordered home.

He drives with his mind on autopilot, his car taking the network of turns as if pre-programmed. Lincoln would blame it on lack of sleep - on a day, a night and a day, drawn out until it felt like a layer of grit over his eyes. He doesn’t realise it’s Wednesday until he’s parked in front of Robert’s drive. The yellow light from Julie’s window shines soft as a beacon, a promise of welcome.

It’s like a kick to the solar plexus. Sharp and gut-wrenching.

They were terrible cooks the pair of them, burnt toast and meatloaf hard enough to be used as a lethal weapon. Wednesday was mystery night, when the kids would concoct their own meal and Lincoln was shanghaied into supervising them, beer in one hand and an apron donned over his work clothes. It was Robert perched on the kitchen bench, one arm folded around Julie’s waist, mellow and amused, making Lincoln part of his family.

Lincoln hasn’t spoken to Julie since the funeral. Since he returned Robert’s body in a closed casket. He has no place in her home but Wednesday night had a place in Lincoln’s life for three years.

He stumbles out of the car and up the porch-steps, ringing the doorbell before fear can sway his mind. He has a thousand apologies on the tip of his tongue. He hadn’t meant to leave things so long before visiting, to let the silence stretch out. He would have dropped by earlier, but the cases Lincoln works aren’t like before, the timetable not as forgiving.

Julie stutters when she opens the door. Her face is drawn tight, pale as if she’s lost weight. “Lincoln,” she whispers, and pulls him inside, into amber warmth.

He thinks he could close his eyes and rest, listen to Jonathan play with his Tonka-toys except the house is eerily quiet, the children in bed. He sits with a cup of coffee, perched on the end of the couch, and listens to the tempo of Julie’s voice as she talks about the kids.

“I love you,” Julie says. “Things are getting better,” she says. “Thank you so much for bringing him home,” she whispers and her hand presses tight against Lincoln’s cheek, the barest hint of a waver detectable in her voice. “I don’t want you to come back again. I’m so sorry. It hurts.”

Lincoln says, “I love you, too.” He says, “Good, that’s good. It’s only right things should turn better.” He says, “I’m sorry I couldn’t do more.” _I’m sorry I wasn’t there _. He whispers, “Of course, of course,” and stumbles from the couch. He looks around for someplace to set his coffee cup down, his face frozen.__

 

 

INTERVIEW 3:  
TAKE 3:

 

____________________________

 _“You…are not my son.” _– Walter Bishop.  
______________________________

Peter knows enough information about Fringe, the war, and the machine to make everyone uneasy. He also gets enough information so utterly wrong it makes Broyles’ distrust factor light up like a nuclear strike-room during the cold war.

Lincoln’s first fear – that Peter was a rogue agent sent from the other side – doesn’t quite fit and insanity doesn’t explain the things he does get right with disturbing frequency. Peter says with aplomb things are wrong, not as they’re supposed to be, and Lincoln believes him. But he also believes in a multi-verse of unending parallels. If what Peter said is true, then Lincoln thinks it’s more likely he fell into the crack of a third reality by mistake.

“No,” Peter says, frustrated.

“Why not?”

“I didn’t _fall _anywhere.” He hesitates as if about to add something then shrugs. “This isn’t about the multi-verse, this is about _time _.”____

Lincoln twirls his pen and peers at the other man over his glasses. “Stepped on a butterfly in your travels?”

Lincoln thinks his expression remains tactful but Peter snorts outright. Someone found him decent clothing. Peter lost the hospital scrubs in exchange for jeans and a grey t-shirt that hugs his body well, showing the curve of bicep as he leans against the tabletop. The man seems incapable of using the seat provided and for one blinding second, he reminds Lincoln of Robert. In the way he uses the space around him. Robert was all loose bones, laconic sprawl, threatening to spool off the seat like melted taffy. Peter’s coiled, the thrum of discordance setting his muscles tight, he looks like he’s ready to leap. It’s the difference between Peter’s appearance and Robert’s reality, and Lincoln corrects himself after taking a second long look because they’re nothing alike at all.

“Yeah, well, Lady Luck thumbed her nose at me about a year ago,” Peter mutters. “We haven’t been on speaking terms since.”

“Bummer,” Lincoln agrees, and feels his mouth tilt.

He taps his pen against the note-pad. Technically, the interview finished half an hour ago. He could wrap it up and go home, re-heat last night’s pasta in the microwave, go over new case files. He starts to cap the pen when Peter says. “You weren’t here originally. You were assigned to Hartford instead.”

“I still was, up to two months ago.” Lincoln’s waiting for a segue. For Peter to question what happened two months prior. He’s ready to leave because Robert’s not up for discussion, not the events of his death or how it led to Lincoln’s transferral.

Peter watches carefully, gaze fixed on Lincoln’s eyes. “You fit here,” he says slowly, side-stepping the topic Lincoln was braced for.

Lincoln wouldn’t have said so previously. The only place he ever felt at home was with Danzig. Lincoln stood by. He let Olivia Dunham drag him into the office. Her offering of emotional support so blatantly _earnest _he had stared at her in a kind of horror. There should have been teasing…Robert would have teased. Lincoln keeps his head down, he does his job, and he doesn’t give a fuck whether he fits in on Olivia Dunham’s crew or not. He lost what little sense of belonging he had when his partner died. “You think so?” Lincoln says pleasantly.__

“The first time you and I met was about a year ago, you were chasing a woman named Dana Gray.” Lincoln freezes in surprise. Peter rubs one hand down his chin, dark with stubble, his voice musing. “She had an unusual proclivity for not dying. How’d the case-file work out for you this time around?”

Lincoln shifts uncomfortably. “I didn’t have the resources of the Fringe division with me,” he manoeuvres.

“By that you mean Walter Bishop,” Peter says evenly. “If I give you Gray’s last known address in Roxbury and her employer – “

“Wait? She’s living in Boston?” Lincoln interrupts incredulously.

“If she’s still there and you find her, do I get another reward?”

Lincoln looks around at the tiny cell, tries to see it from Peter’s point of view. He’s been in what amounts to solitary confinement for almost four days now. “Maybe,” he hedges. “But you don’t get any say in what kind of reward it is.”

Peter provides her address, the name of a suicide hotline, and wishes Lincoln luck with the barest hint of sarcasm. After Dana Gray is remanded into custody, when the paperwork is filled out and the interview conducted; Lincoln brings in a deck of cards and tosses them offhandedly to the other man. It’s the first time he sees Peter smile, uncomplicated and real.

“Thank you,” he says, and shuffles the deck in front of Lincoln’s eyes, slick as a croupier.

 

On day five, Olivia and Walter are cleared from the review board at Saint Claire’s and are ferried by car to Fringe Headquarters. They arrive at ten o’clock sharp on a blustery morning, the sky steel-gray, clouds rolling overhead like whitecaps in the ocean. Lincoln’s already lost three hands of poker when they invade the interrogation room.

He packs up the cards, tidies his suit, and steps away to watch the proceedings.

On day five, Peter sits (and he does apparently know how to use a chair) across from his father and asks for help. Olivia stands at the back of the room, her arms folded, stance defensive and jumpy like an electrified cat. Lincoln watches as she sways forward then tilts back, as if balanced on an unknown precipice. Her eyes remain glued to Peter.

Walter, fresh from the Saint Claire’s committee, shakes his head with increasing urgency.

“No,” he says and pushes away from the table. “You’re not him. You…are...not…him!” He knocks the chair aside, its bulk clattering across the floor with a screech of metal. “I left him in the bottom of the lake! How _dare _you?”__

“Olivia,” Lincoln warns, alarmed.

She’s already moving, one arm tight around Walter’s shoulders, her voice steady in his ear. Walter doesn’t shake her off but looks at Peter like someone betrayed, who doesn’t understand the cruelty being inflicted. Walter’s face is flat with loathing, his gaze skittering away. “You are not my son,” he spits, and storms from the room. Lincoln takes one look at Peter, the terrible expression in his eyes then follows Olivia out of the room.

“What do you think?” Olivia asks when Walter’s calmed down and left them both for the comfort of the food dispenser, counting each step aloud as he paces forward.

“I think after five days of waiting in isolation, it wasn’t the reunion Peter was hoping for.”

Olivia bites down on her bottom lip, her eyes cutting toward him impatiently. “You’ve spent the most time with him. What do you think?” she reiterates. There’s a hint of anger in her voice, it makes Lincoln straighten like a rebuked schoolboy, the glibness fading from his tone.

“He knows too much for it to be a coincidence. Peter thinks time has changed, he wants Walter’s help to figure out what went wrong and correct it.” Olivia nods, all of her intensity focused on Lincoln like a floodlight. “But personally, I think it’s possible he’s from a third reality. There’s no way to know if he’s confusing us with where he _should _be.” Olivia closes her eyes, she leans in until Lincoln tilts forward too, meeting her halfway across the desk, so close he can feel the warmth of her breath.__

“Your theory doesn’t explain my dreams, Lincoln, he was in them…and now he’s here.” Her voice is quiet as a confession.

He has no easy refute to Olivia’s point.

Lincoln’s never asked about the nature of her dreams, in what manner Peter first appeared. The rosy flush to Olivia’s cheeks means he’s not inclined to pry either. “You know, if anyone was going to believe this guy outright I would have pegged it as Walter.”

“Do I look like I’m throwing my arms around him?” Olivia snaps, one eyebrow quirked dangerously. In the interrogation room, Olivia had looked as inviting as a team of greyhounds does to a startled rabbit.

“You look like you don’t know what to do with him,” Lincoln retorts.

“And you do?”

 _I have a few thoughts _, Lincoln reins himself from saying, off-the-cuff and amused. It would have been the type of thing he said to Robert, not caring how the other man interpreted it. He has to choke the words back here.__

That, and the knowledge he _has _been thinking about it, ever since he walked into Massive Dynamic and saw the bruises.__

Olivia glances at Walter as he returns with a bag of Twisties in hand. “It’s been a long day for him,” she says softly. “I think Walter just needs time to process.”

“Whatever else, Peter’s been helpful, at least twice now,” Lincoln offers.

Olivia turns in the direction of the interrogation room, a frown marring her face. “The bargaining will start to escalate,” she warns. “Lincoln, you know how this works.”

“Yeah,” he admits, and smiles at her faintly. Olivia’s protective instincts are in full flight, aimed toward Lincoln like a kid brother in need of guidance. “I have it under control.”

 

He re-enters the interrogation room to a miniature shit-fest. Peter paces from one wall to the other. He looks like he’s ready to hit something. As a matter of standard, Lincoln never brings his service weapon into an interrogation, but this is the first time he thought the protocol was necessary. Peter swings around to face him, his face fox-sharp, his gaze cutting to the door Lincoln stepped through. “Walter isn’t going to help you figure it out,” Lincoln says neutrally, “and Olivia…”

“Isn’t interested in coming? Has other things on her mind?”

It was one of the first things he said to Peter. He said it to score a cheap point off him - before he spent a week with the man. Lincoln has one moment of sharp regret. It’s the little things that stick to people, that worm under the skin. “She’s taking Walter home,” Lincoln answers gently. Peter blinks rapidly, his eyes blown wide.

Lincoln uprights the chair Walter knocked aside and sets it down. “You use Walter as a sounding board, yeah, the two of you knocking ideas around? Why don’t you play with me instead?” He sees the faintest impression of teeth, shoulders squaring as Peter watches him impassively. “What? I’m a geek-boy,” Lincoln admits without shame. “Science graduate and everything. I’m told I even lead the Fringe team on the other side.” He doesn’t add there’s no one else. Lincoln’s taken his quota of cheap shots at Peter’s expense, and he can’t erase the expression he saw when Walter walked away. Peter must have a theory: he was only holding out for the two people he thought would help. “What do you think went wrong?” Lincoln’s heard the story in all its muddled glory. He’s just not certain if Peter will accept him as a substitute.

Bishop scrubs the back of his hair once, leaving violent cowlicks in his wake before he nods sharply. “In my…version…both realities built the machine, constructing it one piece at a time. Except Fauxlivia was sent through to infiltrate our reality and steal a single piece. When Walternate turned on the machine we didn’t have time, soft spots were forming all over the place, and so I went in regardless. It still worked. The machine still powered up. But whatever went wrong, I think it’s connected to the missing piece.”

“The one that’s still on the other side?”

“Yeah, we cross the bridge and get it back, I hop into the machine, and whatever went wrong with the timeline corrects itself.” Peter leans forward, his frame tense. “It’s a theory.”

It tallies with Lincoln’s version of events as well - Fauxlivia had performed the same act of sabotage here; but it’s Peter’s version of a ‘solution’ that has Lincoln staring at him flatly. “So we have to take it on your word your timeline is better than ours?”

“I’m _supposed _to be here.”

“You _are _.”__

“Cute. I’m supposed to be here with my goddamn life, with my family knowing who I am.”

Lincoln knows by the implication family includes more than just Walter Bishop. He bites his lip and stares at the wall. He wants to believe Peter’s timeline is better - a timeline where Robert is still alive - but there’s no evidence to support it, and Lincoln can’t make that leap of faith. It’s not in his DNA to trust blindly. He can’t risk it on the word of an individual he’s known for one week. And buried deeper, in what amounts to base instinct, Lincoln thinks any change is a kind of death to who and what they are now. “Alright, devil’s advocate: you set out to help both realities and you _succeeded _. We’re working together…using the bridge, doing everything in our power to fix this war. Why mess with that?"__

“If you’re trying to spiral me into an existential crisis I’ll beat you over the head with the chair.” Peter snarls, and paces to the opposite side of the room, arms folded across his chest.

Lincoln looks up, his grin predatory. “It’s also the truth. You set out to save the girl, get both sides working toward reconciliation. You get gold stars for both points because we’re doing that.”

“And Walter? He’s not supposed to be this bad. This isn’t how things are meant to be. Olivia…” Peter trails off.

“Is something fierce,” Lincoln notes mildly.

Interrogation rooms are intense by their very design. There’s no sound to interrupt them, not even the hum of air conditioning. There’s no natural light to indicate the passage of time, nothing to distract but each other. Peter turns at Olivia’s mention, his whole body on high alert, still as a scenting dog. He looks starved, hungry for information, drawn to Lincoln’s side by the sound of her name.

She dreamt about you, Lincoln doesn’t divulge, and the first time we met she said there was a hole in her life. But the more time Lincoln spent with Olivia, the more he came to believe she said that for _his _benefit.__

 _“She’s smart, empathic and so damn good at her job. She goes out for drinks every second fortnight. Olivia connects with people and she does it effortlessly.” He can remember the wiry strength of Olivia’s arms, caging Lincoln to his body after the paralysis began to wear off. Lincoln can remember the vibration of her laugh, relieved, as she held him tight, both of them streaked with the fungus and grime. “She’s looked after Walter for three years and she’s my partner.” He can’t say it in any less uncertain terms. He needs Peter to understand - because there’s nothing wrong with this scenario - there’s nothing wrong with Olivia._

 _“I had a home. I didn’t for the longest time and then I did. You wouldn’t fight to keep that?” Peter asks, his voice so very low._

 _Lincoln feels flayed open by his gaze, hard as sapphire, recognition sizzles through him. _I know you _, Lincoln thinks, amused and startled and close to touching. Something inside of Lincoln realigns. “I am.” They’re never going to see eye-to-eye about which timeline is correct, they’re going to be forever opposed, and surprisingly, Lincoln’s okay with that.___

 _“Do you love her?” The redirect is out of the blue._

 _It’s sudden enough to startle Lincoln, to make him look at Peter sharply, but the lack of malice in the question allows for consideration too. He’s been in love with Olivia since the moment she said _You’re going to be fine _. Or rather, from the moment Lincoln realised he _believed _her, as if Olivia passed her conviction into his very bones. Considering the amount of pining that goes on in the alternate world, Lincoln supposes Peter’s question has a degree of merit._____

 _“Yes,” he says simply. “But she’s not my type.” And that, too, is the truth._

 _Lincoln leans into his seat. He lets his eyes turn lazy, his mouth curving._

 _Robert was his type, if the man wasn’t married with kids, straight as an arrow, and utterly deaf to innuendo. The man sharing the interrogation room with Lincoln is his type. Peter paces away again. Lincoln tracks him, both of his hands linked over his stomach. Peter’s eyes are still dilated. The relevance of it is on the tip of Lincoln’s tongue, chasing through his memories of physiology lectures for a clue. “Why did Massive Dynamic restrain you?”_

 _“Night terrors,” Peter says shortly. “I used to get them when I was a kid…” He shrugs once, his voice flat. “I don’t remember what they’re about.”_

 _They found Peter blue-balls naked in Reiden Lake. Pupil dilation, Lincoln recalls, coincided with sexual excitement, illicit narcotics, and was a symptom of high stress._

 _Lincoln doesn’t freak out. Robert used to joke he was a borderline psychotic, in truth he’s even tempered, mind steadfast on whatever job’s availed to him. He supposes that’s why, on the other side, he leads the Fringe unit._

 _“Walter left you in the bottom of the lake when you fell through the ice. It was too soon after his own son’s death, and he was scared a police investigation would uncover what he’d done. He let you rot there for twenty-six years.” Lincoln looks at him curiously. “Are you sure you want to cultivate a relationship with this man?”_

 _He never sees the fist._

 _Lincoln has the vague sensation he’s hit twice, but in hindsight he realises it’s the impact of his skull against the floor when the chair overturns. There’s blood in his mouth, his bottom lip split wide open, and he can’t hear a damn thing over the ringing in his ears._

 _The door slams open._

 _Two agents enter the room, swift and none-too-gentle. Lincoln spits blood. He’s lifting himself upright onto his elbows when they take Peter to the ground, two feet from his position and eye-to-eye with Lincoln. “This isn’t how the timeline’s supposed to be,” Peter grates out._

 _He doesn’t look sorry. He doesn’t look sorry at all. Olivia was right. Lincoln definitely has an idea or two about what he wants to do with Peter Bishop._

 _INTERVIEW 4  
TAKE 4:_

 _____________________

 _“He’s difficult to look at." _– Olivia Dunham.  
___________________

Lincoln catapults through the lab doorway at nine-thirty am.

_

 _Olivia comes to a stop, her eyes widening. She’s holding a coffee in one hand, her body planted in front of Walter’s bedroom, twirling the car keys by the fob. Lincoln’s alarm didn’t go off that morning, having lost power sometime during the night. He awoke at ten past nine with his digital clock flashing 12:00 in angry red. His hair’s all over the place, tie askew, and he’s balancing two folders on top of one another because, despite all of Astrid’s protestations, he prefers the tactile feel of paper over a computer monitor any day. “That bad?” he asks. He nearly split his lip open again when he brushed his teeth that morning. The combination of minty freshness, half a glass of orange juice, and the muesli bar Lincoln crammed into his mouth while driving to work left him on the wrong side of nauseous. The cut is beginning to heal. As such it looks twice as bad. “I was going for the roguish look.”_

 _“Peter did that?” Olivia asks flatly, and steps forward to take the folders from his hand. She tilts Lincoln’s chin upward, her fingers cool, lined against his jawbone._

 _“Apparently I struck a nerve.”_

 _“Looks like he hit a whole cluster in return.”_

 _Lincoln decided the first hit’s a freebie; he’ll make allowances for what had to have been a shitty day for Peter, but after that, all bets are off. He grins at Olivia, biting down on his bottom lip to feel the edge of pain. He feels awake, awake and alive, thrumming with curiosity. He notices the coat Olivia’s wearing, buttoned up to her chin, car keys in hand, and quirks an eyebrow at her._

 _“Walter wants to go to Massive Dynamic this morning,” Olivia elaborates. She shakes her head once. The committal-hearing aside, it’s the second time in a week Walter’s left the lab of his own volition. “Whatever falling out he had with Nina Sharp’s been put on the back-burner for the moment.”_

 _“He wants to see what tests Massive Dynamic ran,” Lincoln surmises._

 _“Specifically DNA,” Olivia confirms. “I don’t think Walter slept last night.” She lets her hands fall away from his face and steps back, placing distance between them._

 _Lincoln steps around her._

 _The New York Times is open on the desk, the crossword half-completed, burying the workbench under its spread wings. Lincoln recognises Astrid’s handwriting in the crossword, as well as Dr. Bishop’s in the margins, the letters slanting to the left, smudged over by the drag of his hand following the pen. Olivia scrutinizes him, her question loaded with worry. “Lincoln? If you want me to take over the interview from now on…?”_

 _“No.” She’s startled by the vehemence in his reply, her head snapping up. Lincoln fidgets, looking around at the disorganised chaos, searching for a distraction. “Broyles gave the brief to me,” he adds a little more quietly. Lincoln takes the files from her hands gingerly._

 _The silence is starting to feel awkward when Olivia motions at the paperwork. “What’s all that?”_

 _“Hopefully a case-file Peter’s never worked on in the other timeline, or wherever he’s from.” Lincoln rocks forward onto his toes when Olivia frowns at him. He widens his eyes innocently. “I want to know if Peter’s any use to me…when he doesn’t already know the case.”_

 _Olivia looks between the file, Lincoln, and Dr. Bishop’s door. “Walter,” she calls out, “hurry it up, the appointment’s at ten!” She twirls the fob again, her expression bemused. “When I said things were going to escalate, I didn’t mean for you to be the perpetrator.”_

 _“My dad said try a new resource, but never waste one.”_

 _Walter’s door bounces open violently. He’s dressed neatly in what amounts to Dr. Bishop’s finest clothes. The scent of after-shave waffles out with him, hair combed, shoelaces tied. “Agent Carter,” he greets._

 _“Lee,” Lincoln corrects._

 _Walter nods as if he said it all along, wringing his hands anxiously. “Olivia? Can we go now?”_

 _“Of course,” Olivia folds one arm protectively along Walter’s spine, her eyes searching Lincoln’s face. “’Be careful.”_

 _***_

 _The deck of cards are fanned across Peter’s bunk when Lincoln enters the cell. He ripples them in a domino sweep then quarters the deck between thumb and pinkie. It reminds Lincoln of the Sting or Maverick, quicker than the eye can follow. Peter looks up from the shuffle. His gaze drops to Lincoln’s mouth; lingering over the cut._

 _Lincoln drops the folder onto the bed and says without preamble. “Christine Taylor, aged twenty-one, Newark resident. She died yesterday morning in the middle of Kent and Tucker intersection. CCTV footage has her winking into existence right before she was pan-caked by a semi-trailer.” Peter sets the cards aside and flips open the folder. Christine was a heavy-boned woman with a sweet smile, her auburn hair courtesy of a cheap bottle. She had an eyebrow piercing near her left eye, a notable gap between her two front teeth. Peter turns the page over and scans the police report, intrigued. “The kicker is, before Christine materialised in the middle of the intersection, she vanished from her art lecture at Rutger’s. All of it witnessed by fifty odd students in the same room with her.”_

 _“Teleportation?” Peter says, incredulous._

 _Lincoln grins at him cheerfully. “Want to play with me?”_

 _When he’s not trying to knock Lincoln’s teeth down his throat, Peter’s surprisingly easy company. They paw over the case-file together, shoulder-to-shoulder._

 _Starved for contact both physical and verbal, Bishop doesn’t pull away from the show of proximity. They toss theories, random facts, back and forth, with the occasional comment thrown in that’s so far out there Lincoln’s convinced the man’s related to Walter in some shape or form. Peter’s quick-witted, approaching problems from Lincoln’s offside, throwing light on angles he wouldn’t have considered. The time passes quickly._

 _He never brings up the punch, nor offers an apology for it and Lincoln doesn’t ask for one. What Lincoln said about Walter was the truth, both men know it, but his sense of timing didn’t help matters either._

 _Peter rolls onto his back after an hour, his eyes drifting over Lincoln’s mouth again. “Why are you doing this?” he asks quietly._

 _For the same reason Lincoln stood up for Robert’s memory, for the right to have his body returned to his family. He blinks rapidly in surprise because Lincoln thought the answer to the question was self-evident. “You haven’t done anything wrong. I mean, they can charge you with indecent exposure but this…” and he motions at the cell, the ligature marks on Peter’s wrists, faded now to a yellow stain. “They shouldn’t be allowed to do this." Peter wanted out of Massive Dynamic because he was scared they’d lock him away forever. Lincoln’s not sure if the move to Fringe was a lateral action or an improvement, but he does believe – right down to his very bones – that you can’t imprison a man for a sin he hasn’t committed. His hand tightens on Peter’s forearm, pressure and heat sinking into his fingers. “I’ll make a deal with you: you help us, prove you're trustworthy, and I’ll do my level best to get you out of here. But I need you to understand as well: the peace accord between our two realities is fragile. If you ever try to cross over into the other world, to take back what Fauxlivia stole, then I’ll hunt you down and bring you back in chains."_

 _Lincoln can’t lie to save himself. When he was a fourteen, his dad caught him with gay porn, the glossy pages of a magazine shoved under his nose at the evening meal. It was the end of the world at the time, a stain high on his cheekbones and his mouth open, looking from his mother to his younger brother without a single deceitful word to cover him. At twenty-nine, Lincoln’s counting on the same inability to drive his point home, to allow Peter to believe him. “If you ever go near the machine: I’ll put a bullet in you.” And he means it, right down to his bones._

 _Peter nods once, eyes at half-mast, body loose, sprawled across the floor like an open invitation. He rolls onto his stomach again while Lincoln’s watching and goes back to work._

 _****_

 _The release comes through faster than Lincoln anticipated. In part because of his own recommendation but the bulk of the push comes from Walter and Olivia._

 _The following days are as relaxing as a casual stroll through a field of landmines._

 _The three of them circle each other, alternating between being drawn and repelled, completely out of sync. Walter pivots between hope and moments of black rage, between reaching out and shoving Peter away. Olivia, for her part, focuses on the elder Bishop, rubbing the bridge of her nose as if short on her own sense of patience or plagued by headaches. Olivia’s already the agent in charge of Walter, her dance-card full with FBI reports and St. Claire follow-ups. Officially, Peter’s given over to Lincoln’s supervision. The two of them end up tossing a koosh-ball back and forth on a lazy Monday, while Astrid creates an official identity for their newest member. “What did you use to do as a career?” Astrid asks. “Before the FBI poached you?”_

 _Her fingers are hovering over the previous employment section. Lincoln’s last toss was over the mark. Peter shuffles back and jumps, catching the ball mid-air. Astrid rolls her eyes at them both, her head tilted impatiently as she waits._

 _Lincoln’s curious as well. Other than the history of the machine they know very little about Peter’s past. So far Peter’s been content to stay close to the lab, helping Walter with the experiments, leaving the legwork of the cases to the actual field agents. Lincoln’s trying to picture what he would have done in a timeline that no longer exists._

 _“Before the FBI asked for my help I was a teacher,” Peter says easily, his face showing nothing, and tosses the ball to Lincoln._

 _“My God, how respectable were you?” Astrid teases, her smile bright even from a distance._

 _“Respectable as they come,” Peter agrees._

 _Lincoln wouldn’t have thought any more of it; would have accepted the answer, except from across the room Olivia rubs one hand over her forehead, her shoulders hunched. _You’re lying _, Lincoln thinks and feels himself turn watchful. The second thought is less benign, more ‘cop’ in its suspicions; he passes the ball over without missing a beat, studying Peter with a half smile on his face.___

 _What type of skills do you have, where did you learn them, and more importantly, when do you plan to apply them? _He won’t keep a man caged for a sin he hasn’t committed, but Lincoln feels something bright, sharp, and interested fire up, lighting his skin from the inside. He meets Peter’s eyes. Bishop’s expression is inscrutable, alien as a foreign language and Lincoln thinks a little dangerously and a lot turned on._

 _ _Want to play? ____

 _ _ ___________

 _ _ _Story One  
___________

____


End file.
